


A Choice

by mynameis_not_cathofaragon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Episode: s15e03 The Rupture, Hurt Sam Winchester, Post-Episode: s15e03 The Rupture, Sam Winchester-centric, Winchester Coping Mechanisms (Supernatural), canon character death, kind of, mentions of canon character deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:48:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25119394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameis_not_cathofaragon/pseuds/mynameis_not_cathofaragon
Summary: "You didn't have achoice" That's what Dean had said, but wasn't that what they were suppossed to do? Sam struggles to cope with everything that's going on. Set right after episode 3, season 15
Kudos: 12





	A Choice

**Author's Note:**

> Quarantine got me watching Supernatural, and bOY did I love it. I also loved Rowena, so s15 e03 broke my fucking soul, and I wrote this right after watching it.

"You didn't have a choice"

_"You didn't have a choice"_

That's what Dean had said, _he hadn't had a choice,_ it was what had to be done, the only way.

But wasn't finding other ways what they did? Who they were? They always had a choice, even when it seemed that they didn't, that all was lost, they had found their way out, they had fought with everything they had. _Always_

Why was this time any different? Why couldn't they have found the other way? If only he had had a little more time, maybe he would have been able to stop her, to save her.

But he hadn't, instead killing her himself. Changing fate was something they had done numerous times in the past, sometimes to save the world, sometimes to save each other, but not this time. No, this time he had done what destiny had wanted him to.

Had it been God? Perhaps, perhaps not. It wasn't like it mattered, what mattered was that Rowena MacLeod was dead, or dying, with no chance of coming back, her body full of demons and dammed souls, and he, Sam Winchester, was to blame.

_"You didn't have a choice"_

Dean hadn't pushed, hadn't stayed and tried to comfort him, to get him to talk; he knew what it was like, and he had probably seen it in himself, the darkness he was sure his eyes held. He had simply walked away, probably going to grab a beer or work on the Impala.

Sam stayed still, sitting on the bed, for a long time; no tears ran down his cheeks. It was worse, probably, because at least tears were a way to let his turmoil of emotions out, but instead he sat, feeling numb.

He knew time passed, and not a long one, he could hear his brother going to bed, although he most certainly wouldn't sleep that night; he didn't say anything, none did, and he didn't hear Cas around either. The bunker was in dead silence.

That may have snapped him out of his trance, or maybe it was just time, but he finally got out of his room. He walked aimlessly through the dark halls, stopping at the library to grab a drink, before heading to one of the storage rooms far from their bedrooms, where he knew Dean wouldn't hear a thing.

The moment he closed the door behind him, it was like another door inside him opened. The pent up sadness, powerlessness, anger, frustration, grief, everything came out at once. He screamed, punching the nearest wall, barely registering the pain. So he did it again, and again, and again. Over and over he punched the walls, threw a table and shelves, not caring about all the papers and files he would have to reorganise later.

Tears streaming down his face and almost inhuman sounds coming out of his mouth, Sam let it all out.

By the end of it, the room was a complete mess, everything that had once been neatly organised was now scattered across the floor. Sam's hands were bloody and bruised, his eyes were red, his hair dishevelled, but he felt a small bit better.

Sitting down on the floor against the door, he took his head in his hands, sobbing quietly. He was overwhelmed, absolutely clueless about what to do. Was it all over? Had that been the End? He doubted it, but at the same time hoped that was it.

It was too much in too little time: mom, Jack, Chuck, the ghostpocalypse, Rowena. When had this became his life? Why couldn't he have had a normal life? He was supposed to go to Stanford, become a lawyer, marry Jess, get a nice house, with a big backyard where kids and maybe a dog could play around freely, where he would hold barbeques with Dean and his family, and Jess' parents, and their friends, and his parents, and he would lead a quiet, simple, happy life, without monsters or demons or angels, _without the weight of the world on his shoulders_.

Instead, everyone he had ever cared for was dead, the only exception being his brother and Castiel, though that didn't make them any less miserable, his house was a bunker filled to the brim with occult knowledge and weapons, and the responsibility to stop the end of the world every few years was always on them.

He had never had a say in the matter apparently, it had all been staged by God; free will was nothing but an illusion, he was a puppet, a toy God would play with when he felt like it, just to throw it away when he got bored, a tool to solve his problems without having to get his hands dirty.

_"You didn't have a choice."_

Didn't he? What did having a choice even mean anymore? Had any of his life been really _his_? What did anything mean? Did they really make a difference?

He'd have to wait. He'd have to get over it, plaster a careless, fake expression on his face, grab a flannel, grab a gun, kill whatever monster they should encounter next time, save people, and fake it 'till he made it. After all, that's what they did: find the other way, and when that didn't work, they shoved the crap inside, because _that_ was really the only way.


End file.
